


the time that passes by

by theviolonist



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Illness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:26:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're lost in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the time that passes by

**Author's Note:**

> Idek. Like the other one, it just came out of nowhere and wouldn't leave me alone. Here, have some angst now.

"I'm sick," Niall says. His voice is low, almost inaudible, drowned in heavy beat of the bass.

Louis always thought that his big announcement would be something like "I'm fucking Harry," but maybe they don't need to be told, because they already know.

The silence is heavier than all the reassurances they could've offered. Louis figures they all think that if he needed reassuring, he'd have told them earlier. It's selfish and petty and maybe a little revengeful, but they're teenage boys, it's how they work.

The silence holds the "We love you, you know" in his mouth, meshes it with his saliva and makes it crash against his teeth, wet and sloppy like a really bad kiss.

Niall doesn't say anything. The silence seems to physically weigh on his shoulders – Louis can see his chest heaving a little, as though he were going to cry. He isn't going to cry, though. Louis at least knows that about him.

He holds his head up. His eyes are very blue, shining. Liam's fingers are curled into inelegant fists, rigid against his sides. Louis wonders whether his nails are digging into his flesh or not. They must be; he hasn't cut them in a long time, they've been too busy.

Louis watches the scene unfold as though he were a stranger. It happens more and more these days. He thinks it'll pass, but he's not really sure. Maybe it's part of becoming an adult. He remembers the gloss shining on Eleanor's mouth and the way he'd wanted to kiss her just to leave her lips dry, mate and unable to catch the light, after she'd said, "I'm sorry." She was – Eleanor is sorry, still.

But Louis is selfish. He's a teenager, almost.

Zayn is the first to move. It isn't a lot: he lets out a sigh, very light and strangely  _quiet_ , a little puff of breath that shatters the silence; his head drops heavily, lolling. Out of the corner of his eye, Louis can see his eyes closing, and the way his eyelashes ink their imprint on his cheek.

After that, there's a flutter of activity, Niall getting up on his feet, his cheeks inadequately red, Harry jumping too, catching his arm, Liam trying to shake the anger and pain off his body in that strange way he has, his shoulders shaking in a controlled, tense way.

There's more anger than pain, Louis thinks, and they direct it at each other because they don't know what to direct it at. Sometimes they're almost painfully easy to decipher. Louis wonders if it's the same for the people on the outside. If they can see through them. He thinks about every secret he was so certain to have kept preciously, cradled against his chest, and he wants to laugh.

*

Dinner is a stilted affair. Louis can see in everyone's eyes that now that they know, every move Niall makes seems to be a sign of illness. They move carefully, as though not to hurt him, but their anger is still there, brewing under their fragile skin, and somehow it makes it worse. Louis feels their movements turning robotic, and he wants to scream, but he doesn't, and instead asks Zayn to pass the salt.

Niall's eyes don't shine anymore. His mouth is twisted and sad; it's obvious that he can't bear their sudden carefulness, the way they avoid his eyes, the twitch in their fingers when he breathes too hard or coughs because a piece of chicken got stuck in his throat. He hates it, and Louis hates it with him, fiercely, with an energy that reassures him.

Louis wonders if Harry knew. But Harry doesn't really pay attention to anyone beside himself and sometimes Louis, so it's possible that he hadn't noticed, or that Niall simply hadn't told him. He's been so afraid, all this time, Louis thinks idly. There hasn't been a minute when he hasn't been afraid – to be kicked out, discovered, caught red-handed. It's a little sad that he's the one that's always afraid. They all probably deserve his pain more than him.

Louis wants to cup his hands and say, "Here, give me your pain, I'll take good care of it". He imagines how it would just – slide off Niall's face and fall into his hands, a golden puddle of pain tingling his palms. He imagines how he would drink it, what taste it would have, how happy he'd be to have it, to relieve Niall of it, to nurse it patiently, until it meshed with him, until they became inseparable.

"Daydreaming again, Tommo?" Niall says, but it feels sad and forced.

Louis looks at him and cocks his head. He smiles, as if to say, "I'm on your side". He wishes he could say they all are.

They eat quickly, making conversation that feels like silence. After what feels like years, Harry gets up. His chair rattling against the tiles startles them into awareness.

"We're going to get through this," he says, mostly to himself, but it resounds in the kitchen, bouncing on the walls and coming back at them, hitting their shoulder-blades.

Harry's eyes widen. He looks hurt – he looks wounded.

He walks up to Niall, his steps unsure and wobbly, and he kisses him, square on the mouth. Louis knows this kiss. He knows the way Harry's eyes are screwed shut and the knocking of teeth, and he knows this kiss is Harry kissing alone, because Harry needs flesh when he doesn't know, and when he needs something, he gets it. He doesn't care how much it hurts, or what are the consequences.

Louis doesn't know if it's foolish or courageous.

Harry told him, once. They were drunk, spread out on the bed, arms hanging at the sides. Harry had one leg thrown over his, in this comfortable physical closeness they've had from the very beginning, inexplicably. He hauled himself up on his elbows. His breathing was raspy and very loud in Louis' ears; he remembers as if it were yesterday. Louis began to laugh, slowly, helplessly, and Harry looked at him from between his lashes and kissed him, just like that.

It wasn't a very good kiss. It was sloppy and messy, and the angle was wrong, but Harry pressed on, wouldn't let go, wouldn't breathe, made Louis moan and sighed, and said, "Good, good." He told Louis later, with his usual unconscious hurtfulness, that it wasn't because of the kiss but because the sound of his moans obstructed the throbbing in his head.

"It's my motto," he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, "if you don't want to hear the noise, scream louder."

Louis found it sad, at the time. Now, as he sees Harry's knuckles, white from gripping the back of Niall's chair, he wants to jump up and pull them apart, protect Niall. "He's going to hurt you," he would say, but he knows what Niall would answer, that he's already hurt, and that new pain won't do much of anything. It's as if Harry's messed-up philosophy had seeped into his skin, contaminated him like Harry's smile (his lips, his curls, his pliant body) contaminates everyone.

(He doesn't want to hurt Harry. He loves him like a brother, Hell, more than that, more than anything really, but he isn't blind. Harry can hurt him, it's been a long since Louis said yes to giving his love for free, to take everything Harry would give him, even the pain. But not everyone has made this choice. He knows – he knows how hurtful Harry can be, without even thinking.)

"It's a trap," Louis would say, but maybe he's lying, a little bit. He's too young – or maybe he's too old – to discern the jealousy from the concern.

They don't ask what illness it is, what particular medical barbarism is here, under their nose, branded into their friend's skin. They don't care, or maybe they're afraid, but really it's all the same, it could be anything. They see that what eats Niall's smile isn't this invisible poison but them, and they startle guiltily, but they can't change.

Liam is frozen for a few days, moving only in that robotic way he has, face closed. He's still the one who handles the phone calls and the work aspect of their life, but they all hear the blankness in his voice, the careful, dizzying void. Niall leaves the apartment at dawn and walks into town until dusk, only coming back when he's needed, a hoodie low on his nose. Harry doesn't care (but he does, he does, of course he does). Louis tries to be the glue that holds him together, but isn't. Zayn smokes fag after fag, slumped against the wall behind the complex.

But then Liam gets better, if only a little bit, and it all gets gradually better with him. You wouldn't believe it watching them, but Liam is the federating force, the one that directs their collective movement. He isn't the one who makes the decisions, but he strays them gently, like a shepherd, and he loves them, so much, he calls them 'my boys' on Twitter and takes care of them. They wouldn't be who they are without him. He has his place – he belongs. They all belong, even if sometimes it's hard to believe.

Liam rounds them up in the living-room. There are still signs of their macabre stillness, of course, the way Niall and Harry don't quite hold hands, the hesitant shuffling of Zayn's feet and the heat his shoulder gives off next to Louis, where they could be pressed against each other but aren't.

"Niall," Liam says.

Louis sees that Niall is trembling. His offer to take his pain surges back in his throat, nauseating.

"What is your treatment?" Liam asks. It sounds formal and insensitive, and Niall flinches, making Harry shudder, but Louis knows it's the only way Liam can make it through this.

(They're like dominos, all of them. It's enough for one of them to fall, slow down, falter, and it's as though an invisible rope pulled them all back, cutting though their middles. They say it's good, the friendship they have, so close, almost like lovers, but the truth is, sometimes it isn't. Sometimes it makes the whole structure wobble, and they're on the edge of falling. Sometimes they can't say who is who, can't define their exact contours, the limits of each one of their beings in the tight hugs, their flesh meshing, and it scares them. Sometimes they disgust each other, but they can never get away.)

Niall mumbles something about pills and appointments once a month, nothing too heavy, he says, but they feel the finality in his voice, the inevitable end the illness is scarring their 'forever young' with. Harry's arm tightens around Niall's shoulders, and Zayn looks like he want to scream. Louis can understand.

It all swings back into focus, though, slowly but surely. It feels like the waves are recessing, bringing something back into reach, and they pick themselves up, one by one, extend outstretched hands and grin shyly at each other. "Good to be back," their gazes seem to say, suddenly tender.

Liam reaches for Niall and pulls him up. They stand in front of each other for a bit. They're the shiest, the two of them, Niall with his blushing cheeks and Liam with his hesitant guardedness. Louis is surprised when Liam's fingers curl around Niall's wrist. Behind them, Harry look wary. He always cared more for himself – it isn't a default, it's just who he is. But Liam pulls Niall in a hug, and it feels  _right_ , somehow, it feels good and needed and clear, clean-cut edges instead of this blurry, sleep-hazed dream they'd all been wandering in.

Louis hadn't noticed, but Harry is curled against his side now, radiating warmth, his eyes green slivers, watching him. He's not that selfish, really – it's just hard to describe him without falling in the extremes, in the  _too much_ , hard to feel the right nuance.

There's a beat, something there usually isn't, a moment in the succession of their actions, blank, hesitant (Louis hates it), but it doesn't last. Soon they're all pressed into the collective hug, Niall's side hot against Louis, their breaths mingling in the middle, back to who they ought to be. Sometimes Louis wishes he didn't fall in love so quickly. Sometimes he swears he doesn't regret anything.

They watch a movie, something stupid they don't even pretend to try to follow, content to let the images wash over them and try to chase the bad thoughts away. Harry even makes them hot chocolate, his mother's recipe, complete with coloured gummy-bears. The mugs burn their skin through the layers of cloth. Louis wonders if it'll leave an imprint, right there against Zayn's heart where it is set or in the middle of his own stomach. They get mustaches that they lick off of each other.

They fall asleep like that, in the reassuring warmth of each other's bodies, Zayn's arm thrown over Liam's shoulders, his fingertips brushing Louis's nape, Niall tucked between Harry's ribs (Louis knows Niall can hear his heart, and he watches the heavy beat lull him to sleep out of the corner of his eye), Louis trapped between Zayn and Niall. It feels like home.

(Louis knows the morning after by heart, and he knows that tomorrow won't be different. They'll wake up more or less grudgingly, brush their teeth together in the cramped bathroom, eyes still half-closed. Harry will be designated to cook breakfast, as always, and he will comply, scratching his balls. Liam will whine that it's unhygienic but he'll eat the waffles anyway.

There will maybe be pills in the cabinet above the sink, little coloured bottles full of them, but they'll ignore it. They're good at ignoring things they don't want to see, the five of them together – they're like this unmovable force, unbreakable as long as they're together.)

He falls asleep too; he feels his laugh come back in his throat as he drifts, hot and tickling, heavy with repressed cheer, and he lets go of the last thread of consciousness, thinking, "We'll be okay" and knowing that it's true.


End file.
